All That Remains
by Lua under water
Summary: the world that could've been, for Remus.
1. decay

.

**decay**

Hands grasp a fistful of matted black hair and pain is suddenly in a world far removed from their tiny universe, at which they are the center in a small, dusty room with tattered hangings at the window, where scant slits of light invade through gaps in the boards.

Delirious grey eyes slide in and out of focus as the face above them hovers, glides down swiftly and their lips collide. To an observer they might look like two animals devouring each other. Mouths crashing down and they are tangled, heaving. The storm rips through every desperation-filled thrust and the blood that pounds in their ears and rushes through the narrow channels of their veins. Adrenaline tingles and entangles every sense in its turbid trap but the light is feeble and so is their adequacy.

Wary living is lonely, just like the morose isolation of captivity by moonlight and sleepless nights in a house where you are not wanted.

Instead here they have hands scratching and fumbling, a hot tangled mess of skin and tongues, like the wild merging of a storm at sea. They are not alone and instead of the silence drowning them, they break its wall and puncture it with tense moans and shuddering breath.

Their entangled bodies slam and jerk against the wall and dusty furniture. With the impact, grime and splinters flutter dismally down from the ceiling, which creaks when the wind blows.

Outside rain tumbles down like rose petals from a dying fading bloom. The sky is mottled and dark as it withers like flowers do.

The tawny-haired boy thinks _Padfoot_, that hot scratchy tongue and brash affection and digging paws at his prickling skin. He's in no condition for this but the sharp pain is shoved further back in his mind as long as he doesn't look down.

Bruises bloom like battered blue-black roses beneath his aching skin. Criss-crossing gashes from unrelenting claws have raked his body, merging and separating the older, jagged scars that lie pale on his flesh. But the other boy's thumb brushes tenderly against the lacerations and instead of feeling pain he shivers with wonder, small pricks of thrill that flutter like butterfly-wings against his shell.

_fingers flying over sweat-slick skin, clenched muscles; hands catching on the curve of hollow bones jutting out as their bodies arch and twist_

The black-haired boy is gentle; still excitable like a dog. He sees flashes of claws like scraping thorns behind his closed eyelids and so limpid grey eyes tremble and open wide.

His lips part and move to form soundless words against the other boy's mouth.

Outside, stormclouds blur and thunder snarls at the ground.

And they are flying past it all.

.


	2. fumbling

**fumbling**

There's an awkward sort of blind hesitation, like the first time they ever dared such an intimate exploration, though both of them remember the countless tangled secrets they shared in the Shrieking Shack in the early hours, when moonlight left the earth ragged and scarred.

And there is no reason to stop as Sirius' hands drift vaguely down his back, uncertain and trembling just a bit, because he is no longer the reckless, daring boy he used to be – he shakes with fears he has swallowed for so many years, but now they choke him.

There's white roses on the windowsill and he feels something breaking, brittle bones or skin snapping, stretched too tight to stifle the panic that lumps in the pit of his stomach.

There's a quiet noise in the back of his throat as Sirius' hands brush over tender bruises—

They fumble to make contact as the sheets twist around them, entangling, they're trapped in each other.

There's the quiet pounding of rain and he feels this is all he has left.

There's a stiff and uncertain silence and he tries to remember what it was like to feel hungry.

There's a silent moving photograph in the room of two boys in black and white print, a captured image repeating the same motion of smiling and pointing at something beyond the observer's view, something off in the distance – perhaps James executing a perilous Quidditch move or maybe a far-off rainstorm misting on the horizon – but it was never long before the boys' eyes would drift back and catch on each other and their cheeks would flush, just a little. Such an intimate impression in the photograph but it is lying under the bed on the floorboards, whispering under the dust that lingers on its surface.

There are so many repressed whispers and smothered memories in this house, beating with dull persistence like a dying butterfly's wings.

— _it seems almost an illusion but the glittering clear-cut glass vase full of swaying roses teeters on the edge, like a hallucination of pleasure half-imagined, and shatters_—

Soon – too soon – it is morning and he leaves Grimmauld Place before the grey dawn descends.


End file.
